


Bonnie and Clyde

by yeah_well_hey



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:16:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3227180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeah_well_hey/pseuds/yeah_well_hey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a tacky diner somewhere in Oklahoma, Nephrite and Makoto start a brawl!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bonnie and Clyde

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I wrote this rather silly scene as an extra to Stargazer, but it didn't seem right to add it as a second chapter, since the mood and tone wouldn't have fitted with the rest of the fic. However, I decided it was worth posting it as a separate one-shot, to add a little humour to my angst-filled SM fic collection.

Menewa unleashes an avalanche of white crystals into his coffee. He keeps the giant sugar dispenser inclined above the cup longer than he should, and Makoto gives him an amused smile.  
“No wonder you’re so hyperactive,” she says, watching him intently. “I’ve never seen anyone consume so much sugar.”  
“I’m special like that,” he answers, grinning.  
Finally, he puts the dispenser back on the table, while Makoto cuts a piece of her apple pie.  
“I thought you’d empty the whole thing out.”  
“Nah, I gotta leave some for the next clients.”  
“Right.”  
“So how are you liking the American diner experience so far?”  
“It’s just like in the movies. The decor, the way the waitresses talk…”  
“Only it’s real life.”  
“Are we heading back to your hometown tonight or are we staying somewhere?”  
“Well, we’ve got two options. And it’ll be up to you to choose whatever you like best. First option, is I drive us back home overnight.”  
“Oh no, we can’t do that. You’ll be exhausted after today’s hike. How would you stay awake?”  
“It’s no problem, babe. I took some vitamins earlier.”  
“And how’s that supposed to help?”  
“Look, it’s really no biggie. Don’t you worry your pretty self about me.”  
“What was your second option?”  
“Second option, is we stay at this trash motel a few miles from here.”  
“ _Trash_ motel?”  
“Yeah. You know the kind of crappy motels in movies, where people get murdered? Well, that’s pretty much what that place is like, minus the murders.”  
“Uh… That doesn’t sound too promising.”  
“No, it’s fine. Just not very glamourous.”  
“Well, what do _you_ prefer?”  
“Like I said, it’s up to you. I mean, I’ll be honest, the trash motel option kind of turns me on. You, me, alone in a creepy room. Squeaky mattress, no cable. I could perform a smudging ceremony before we go to sleep. Just in case.”  
“You’re so weird, Menewa.”  
“Anyway, I’d recommend the first option. I’d push the front seat back a little, and you’d get to sleep while I drive. You’ll be comfortable while your man takes care of everything.”  
“I don’t know, I’d feel kind of bad for you.”  
“Come on, Makoto. Give me an opportunity to show you self-sacrifice, you know, to be a gentleman, stuff like that. Just accept already.”  
“Well, okay. If you insist.”  
“Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna pay the men’s washroom a visit.”

He gets up and heads for the back of the diner. Some guy sitting at the bar notices that he’s left the table, so he decides to approach Makoto and try his luck, because that’s the kind of jackass he is.  
“Hey there, beautiful. I see you’re alone,” he says.  
“Not anymore,” she replies, then eats some pie.  
The stranger places one hand on the table, the other on his waist. He’s got an Elvis kind of look going on. Slicked-back hair and giant sideburns.  
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”  
“You’re gonna run out of adjectives if you keep going like this.”  
“Ouh, you’re a witty one, ain’t ya?”  
“Yep. Could you stop talking to me now? I’d like to finish my pie.”  
“We don’t gotta talk. We can do lotsa things, other than talk.”  
He winks at her, like Menewa does sometimes, but the effect isn’t quite the same.  
“Seriously? Did you really just say that to me?”  
“Whaddaya say, girl? I got a truck out in the parking.”  
“Wow, you really _are_ serious.”  
“Are you worried about your boyfriend? A long-haired hippie like him won’t mind.”  
“No, I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” she answers sarcastically. “I’m curious about one thing, though.”  
“What’s that?”  
“I thought Elvis was dead. Why are you here?”  
“You think you’re real funny, don’t ya?”  
“I try my best. But you, you’re _accidentally_ funny.”  
“Come on, baby, come with me. I’ll show you a good time.”

When Menewa returns and sees Elvis talking to his girl, he’s not very pleased.  
“Is this guy bothering you, Makoto?” he asks as the jerk stands up straight and turns around.  
“Well, well, look who’s here.”  
“Look, man, you better step away from my girl.”  
“Or else _what?_ You think I’m scared of you?”  
“Oh no, it’s not me you should be worried about. It’s _her_. I’m telling you this for your own good.”  
“Get the fuck out of my face.”  
“ _You_ get the fuck out of my girl’s face.”  
Makoto shakes her head, won’t let Menewa punch him in the nose. Then Elvis takes it too far.  
“You dumb fucking Indian,” he rasps.  
“What did you say to me?”  
“You heard me. You dumbass Indian piece of shit.”  
This time, Makoto’s got a hand over her mouth, and isn’t shaking her head anymore.  
 _Oh no he didn’t._  
“This here cowboy’s about to get scalped,” Menewa declares.  
And by the time the jackass can react, the alleged dumb fucking Indian grabs him and sends him crashing into some chairs.  
As Elvis tries to scramble to his feet, Menewa jerks him up and punches him in the face. That’s when Makoto intervenes. She gets in there, pulls some karate moves on him.  
“How dare you call my man a dumb Indian? You’re gonna regret waking up this morning, punk!”  
Plastic glasses roll onto the floor, plates shatter. Fake porcelain cups break to pieces. Forks and knives fly in every direction. Together, Makoto and Menewa generate a brawl bigger than the diner’s seen in all its years. And that includes the 60s.

At the end, Elvis lies on the ground, his hair full of unfinished pie. He moans and whimpers, while the waitress finally comes out. Frantic, she inspects the damage.  
“It’s alright, m’am, we’re gonna help you clean and pay for the broken stuff,” Menewa says, rubbing his sore knuckles.  
“Out! I want you both _out!_ ” she screams.  
“But m’a—“  
“I said, _out!_ ”  
“C’mon,” Menewa whispers, quickly grasping Makoto’s arm. “Before she calls the fuzz.”

As he pulls her out of the diner, Makoto looks around for cameras and microphones. She checks for a director sitting in a chair, someone like Tarantino or Rodriguez, but there’s nobody around. This is real life. This is not fiction, this is not a movie. This was a real diner, a real antagonist, a real brawl.  
Menewa stops for a second, turns to look at her, smiling from ear to ear. He suddenly leans in for a kiss, a brief but sensual smooch that leaves her pining for more.  
“Let’s go, Bonnie,” he says, and she follows Clyde into their getaway car.


End file.
